Texas Red
by ladybrit
Summary: An adventure story loosely based on the lyrics of the song Big Iron as written and sung by Marty Robbins. It is also uses some characters from "The Only Man I can Trust".
1. Chapter 1

**TEXAS RED**

Chapter 1

To those who knew him, Matt Dillon didn't seem to be a man prone to reading. Sure, he read the wanted circulars that came around on an all too frequent basis, and was diligent about keeping up with the occasional reports that came out of Washington. Chester had even seen him look things up in a law book a time or two, but it wasn't often that he was seen working his way through stacks of newspapers. He'd started making ever more frequent trips to the Santa Fe depot and the Overland Stage office, looking for newspapers coming out of any little town in Kansas, Texas or other nearby states and territories. He was even becoming a regular customer at the telegraph office, sending wires to sheriffs and deputies located anywhere within the surrounding townships. He was seeking information on bank robberies, murders, and any killings - even ones that seemed justified. The marshal was especially interested in news of a hired gun by the name of Red Larson.

His exhaustive daytime reading had begun to slip over into his night-time sleep. Several times he found himself awake in a cold sweat with his heart beating wildly in his chest. He hadn't actually witnessed the murder of John Hicks and his deputy, but his mind worked overtime in the dark of night. He watched helplessly, time and again, as the two lawmen walked unknowingly into the shadowed recesses of an alley. From behind them two men would appear. Guns were raised and two rapid shots were fired. He could only watch, unable to do anything to stop it. Time and again the two lawmen would fall lifeless to the ground. He'd tried to call out to warn them but he had no voice. He tried to see the killers but they were faceless beings generated by his guilty mind.

Dillon had no reason to feel guilt. He had done his best to bring the men responsible for those deaths to justice, but his best had not been good enough. There was still a man out there, a man who was an image on a circular. Matt had studied it so many times during the last three months that he could close his eyes and see that face in every detail just as clearly as he could see his own in the shaving mirror.

Kitty began to notice something wasn't quite right. The first time or two it happened, she put it down to the stress of the trip to Great Bend followed by the less than satisfactory outcome to the trial of Carp and Holcombe - at least it was less than satisfactory according to Matt Dillon's way of thinking. He usually came to her rooms after his late night rounds. He still came, but seemed even more preoccupied than usual. His conversation was limited to one or two word replies to her attempts at getting him to talk. At first this didn't upset her too much, after all she was used to his long periods of silence.

It was a month or so later when she awoke sometime in the darkness of night. He was lying in the bed beside her, calling out, trying to warn someone. He was even reaching to his hip for a gun that wasn't there. At first she couldn't wake him, but as he flailed and struggled against the sheets that covered them both, she managed to get out of bed and light a lamp. In its pale light she could see his face covered with beads of sweat and his breath coming in short rapid gasps.

Carefully she laid a hand on his chest. "Matt, wake up," she called, softly at first, then repeating it a little more loudly. Her gentle touch became much firmer as she began shaking his shoulder. Suddenly he was awake, and for a moment there was a look in his eyes that alarmed her. He was still expecting to see the demons from his sleep.

"It's all right Matt!" She touched him again, trying to calm him. "You're safe. It's Kitty. You're here with me." She spoke quickly, trying to reassure him, while at the same time pushing him down onto the bed.

Slowly his mind came back to the present. "I'm…I'm sorry Kitty. What happened? Did I wake you?" For a moment he seemed confused, but slowly his expression cleared.

"You were dreaming, Matt. You wanna tell me what it was about?"

The marshal closed his eyes and shook his head to clear the already fading images from his mind. Somehow, he couldn't quite remember the details now, but he knew something bad had happened. One thing he knew for certain was that he didn't want to talk about it.

Kitty had gone to the wash stand. She poured a little water from the pitcher into a bowl and soaked a cloth in it. She squeezed it out and handed it to him.

"Here, the cold water will help clear your head."

Gratefully he accepted the offer and wiped the cool rag over his face and neck. She was already pouring a shot of whisky.

"Drink this, Matt," she said, as she handed it to him. Gratefully he swallowed the liquid in one gulp.

"Thanks Kitty," he murmured quietly, staring fixedly into the now empty glass. "Sorry I woke you."

Somehow they managed to settle down once more, eventually slipping back into an uneasy sleep. Daybreak ushered new light and a new day into the room and the marshal left the bed, dressed, and went to make his morning rounds. He still felt tired, just as if he'd been fighting drunken cowboys all night. He thought about a cup of Chester's coffee and how that would wake him up for sure.

()()()

A week or so later Matt was carrying papers to a ranch located about ten miles to the east of Cimarron. It was barely a three-hour ride from Dodge, but because of many frustrating delays, he didn't get started until early afternoon. By the time he handed over the documents he'd been carrying, he knew it was too late to make it all the way home before dark. The rancher had offered him a bed for the night - but he turned it down, preferring to camp somewhere along the trail on the way back to Dodge.

It had been a while since he'd slept outside. He pulled over at a campsite he'd used many times before. It was right beside the Arkansas River and fortunately no other traveler had gotten there before him. After taking care of his horse, he lit a small fire and set out his bedroll. Then amongst the familiar noises of the night-time prairie, he settled down to rest. Dillon never really slept out here. He often said he never closed both eyes, and in a way that was true. Just to lay and listen to the wild sounds of night and watch the familiar stars as they followed their well laid paths across the sky was almost better than sleep.

The sky was so clear tonight. In Dodge City the dust together with the foggy light from the lamps on Front Street, obscured this familiar sight. Here the air felt clean, and the constant noise from out of tune pianos was pleasantly absent. It gave a man room to lie back and think. Of course, what he began thinking about was Red Larson. He pulled the creased and crumpled poster from his pocket - it had become his constant companion since leaving Great Bend. In all the newspaper articles he had read, and answers to all the telegrams he had sent, no one had heard of Red Larson since the killing of Sheriff Hicks. There was one man whose name he had come across several times, however - and that was Texas Red. Whether it was the same man or not, he had no way of knowing, but it was a place to start looking, especially since, as far as he could tell, Texas Red hadn't been heard of before Red Larson disappeared. He folded the poster and returned it to his pocket, then pulled the thin trail blanket over himself and settled down to sleep.

That night the dreams came again. He could see John Hicks and his deputy walking into that dark hollow of an alley. There were two men creeping out of the shadows behind them. He tried to call out and warn the lawmen, but no one could hear him. He grabbed his gun and fired. The sound echoed in the silence and he sat bolt upright. As he opened his eyes he saw that the fingers of his right hand were clasped tightly around the Colt pistol that usually hung by his hip. It had been fired and the barrel was still hot to the touch. It took him a few minutes to realize what had happened, then he understood the significance of it all. If anyone else had been with him out here, he might have killed them. He felt cold but there was sweat dripping off his forehead and he wiped it away with his sleeve. He knew that he had to find the killer he was after, because as long as the man was out there free, the dreams would continue.

()()()

He rode into Dodge a little before noon. He was tired and exhausted from the visions that had robbed him off a night's rest. Furthermore, he was scared to go to sleep now because he knew the images would come again. It was as if he himself carried the guilt for what had happened.

He pulled the buckskin over to the rail outside the office and grabbed his rifle and canteen. He was planning to have Chester take the horse down to Moss Gimmick's, but when he opened the door to the jail, his assistant was nowhere to be found. The place was in a mess too, with mail and newspapers scattered over the desk. The stove was cold and there was no coffee. He was irritable and angry for no reason he could tell, but the moment Chester came in through the back door, he took it out on him.

"Where have you been? What do I pay you for?" It was a tone of Mr. Dillon's voice that Chester was not used to hearing directed at him.

"Er.. I'm sorry Mr. Dillon, I didn't know when to expect you. You wan' me t' see t' yer horse…"

"Yeh, do that, Chester." Matt raised one hand to his head and took a few breaths. "I'm sorry I yelled…. just tired I guess." He lowered his hand to the buckle of his gun-belt and began unfastening it from around his waist.

Chester studied his boss for a moment. The marshal had never acted quite like that before.

"You all right, Mr. Dillon? You do look a mite peaked - yer not takin' sick or somethin' now, are ya?"

"No, Chester. I didn't sleep so good last night, that's all. I'll be fine. Just go on and take care of my horse for me and I'll get the stove going."

He turned to hang the holster on the peg by the entrance to the cells, feeling bad that he had taken out his frustration by yelling at Chester. After all, the man was his trustworthy assistant, loyal to a fault. It was because of his own failing that Red Larson was still out there somewhere, not Chester's.

()()()

Dillon felt himself becoming irritable and abrupt with everyone. Even Kitty. He couldn't understand why or figure a way to fix the problem. He would just have to be aware and try harder to control his outbursts.

He planned to ask Kitty to have lunch with him so he could try to set things right with her. Last night she had asked what was wrong with him, why he was acting strangely - getting really upset at little inconsequential things like he'd done two nights ago? He'd backhanded some cowboy. The man had been a little drunk, but nothing out of the ordinary for a Friday night. He had made a couple of comments about Dodge City and the law being too strict around here. Matt had got up from the chair where he had been sitting talking with Kitty, and landed a backhand right across the cowboy's chin. The man had fallen to the floor and the marshal had ordered his assistant to take him to jail and lock him up. Looking back on it, he knew that wasn't right. He didn't usually try to stop people from expressing their opinions - good or bad - unless they were seriously disturbing the peace or trying to get a mob stirred up. He knew deep down that the words of some half-drunk cowhand didn't count for much. Still it had angered him enough for those few moments and he'd lost his temper. He knew better. In his job, control was all important. He never knew when someone was out there looking to challenge him. Control and vigilance were important if he wanted to stay alive.

()()()

For once the meal had been good. Kitty commented that they must have hired a new cook, but her words seemed to go unnoticed. She continued talking, something about some new lamps she planned to purchase for the Long Branch. Giving up on getting his attention with regular conversation, she resorted to the outlandish.

"Doc and I are running away to New Orleans tomorrow."

At first there appeared to be no response from the tall lawman sitting across from her. Then slowly there came a change of expression on his face.

"What did you just say, Kitty?"

"I was beginning to wonder how to get your attention. You're about as much company as that wall over there."

"I'm sorry Kitty. I was thinking."

"That's all you do these days. Still contemplating Red Larson no doubt. Matt I can understand you wanting to take him down, but it's become an obsession with you."

"I'm sorry," he repeated for lack of something better to say. "Look, I need to go down to the depot. I'll get Chester to come and walk you back to the Long Branch."

She could hardly believe what he had just said. She looked across the table at him, a mild anger showing in her eyes. "You brought me here, Matt and I'd be grateful if you'd be so good as to see me home. Five minutes is not going to make much difference to you or Red Larson."

"You don't understand how important this is to me."

"Aren't I important too, Matt? You've been ignoring or yelling at everyone lately. You can't go on like this. Supposing you never find him?"

She had put her fork down and was staring directly into his face. He held her gaze for a moment then abruptly stood up from the table, pushing his chair back so forcefully that it almost fell over.

"Don't say that, Kitty. Somehow I have to find him and bring him to justice. I owe that much to John Hicks and his deputy."

Kitty looked hastily around. His outburst had been sudden and loud. Heads turned away from their food to watch the usually stoic marshal as he picked up his hat from the chair next to him.

"Matt, sit down and finish your meal," she began in a loud whisper - almost as if correcting a recalcitrant child, but it was too late. He had already gathered his hat and was turning to leave the cafe.

"I'll get Chester to come and walk you home," he murmured quietly as he passed the back of Kitty's chair.

"Matt!" she called after him but he didn't seem to hear her.

Her eyes followed him, wondering. Something was eating away at her normally calm, caring and considerate escort. All she could do was watch as he left Delmonico's, and act as if it was all in a day's business. She knew everyone's eyes were on her now, but that wasn't too unusual a situation for Kitty Russell and it didn't bother her. But she did worry for Dillon.

TBC


	2. Chapter 2

**Texas Red**

Chapter 2

Red Larson knew that "Red" had not been the name his mother gave him. He didn't remember much about her anyway, so it mattered very little. People always called him 'Red' - or 'the Larson kid'. Sometimes they called him worse names than that. He remembered life on the streets of the little Texas town which was too small to have an official name. He lived like the stray dogs - scrapping for food here and there, and drinking water from a nearby creek. He'd found an old abandoned shack not too far from the edge of town. The roof was half collapsed, and the walls had pieces missing, but it did provide him with some shelter against the worst of the weather.

He figured he must have been about twelve or thirteen years old when a group of men came by. They seemed to be celebrating something. It was an unusually hot, long summer that had hung over into fall. He'd been down by the creek, swimming in the cool water, when he heard them approach. He had time to hide in one of the trees that grew by the creek and watched curiously as they watered their horses. The storm that followed came up out of nowhere, and he saw them look around for shelter. Naturally they discovered the long deserted homestead which he'd taken over as his own.

By squinting through one of the many gaps in the logs that made up the back wall of the cabin, he watched as they pulled dollar bills and coins from several sacks they carried with them. They were laughing at how easy it had been to kill the clerk and take the money. One of the men re-enacted the scene by removing his gun from its holster and twirling it in the air. Then he took a knife from his pocket and carved a notch in the handle. It was for the bank clerk, announced the owner of the gun. His friends slapped him on the back and told him he'd done a good job. Red wanted that gun, or one like it. He continued to watch the men through the crack in the timbers until it got too dark to see, then he crawled away to the remains of a dilapidated lean-to that was in even worse shape than the cabin. Even though the day had been hot, night would bring a cold chill to the air. At least there in the shack he would have been able to light a fire. Here in the shed he would spend a cold, damp night.

The men were up early next morning. He spied on them as they lit a small fire and heated coffee. It smelled so good and in his cold state he watched enviously as they drank the steaming liquid from tin mugs. After a while they went to saddle their horses, leaving the money sacks on the floor in the shack. If he snuck in and took a little, surely they wouldn't notice. Carefully he entered the cabin through a small hole, low to the ground, near the old chimney. He had no idea how much it would cost to buy a gun. He couldn't take too much of the money anyway because they would notice. Hurriedly he removed his ragged shirt and used it to wrap around some coins and a few bills. He took just a handful from each sack - they'd never be able to tell. He left as quickly and quietly as he'd come and returned, unseen, to his own foxhole.

()()()

He waited a long time before venturing back to the nearby town. He knew there would be questions. How did a boy come up with all that money? He was older now though, and he felt as if he was already a man. He needed a horse, some clothes and most of all a gun. At first he thought that a gun would make his life easier. No more making snares for rabbits or fashioning a pole to catch a meal from the creek. If he had a gun there were antelope and larger game that he could kill, but then he had a better idea. Even though time had passed, the men and their sacks of money stayed clearly in his mind. They had got it from a bank. If he had a gun he could do that too. He would never be poor again.

Red was smart enough not to take all his money to town. People there knew he had nothing. Maybe he was old enough to get a job at least for a week or two, then he could buy stuff he needed without anyone thinking much about it. He cleaned himself up as best he could. He even washed his clothes in the creek the night before, and hung them out to dry. Strangely they no longer fitted him, the britches and the shirt were way too small but with money he could by new ones - and boots. He had never had boots.

He'd picked stalls and helped the blacksmith for a while. It was harder work than he had ever done before and he began to regret leaving the creek and the shade tree. At least back there, the afternoons were peaceful and he didn't have to break his back pumping bellows or cleaning up after horses.

The blacksmith paid him quite well, and by adding some of the money he'd taken from the sacks, he bought clothes and boots without anyone commenting or asking questions. Another two weeks went by and he was able to buy a horse. The blacksmith even gave him an old saddle that someone had left in the stables many months before. The final thing he wanted was a gun. Everything else was ready, he would buy the gun and leave town.

In less than a month he had everything he wanted. He went back to the shack and collected the remainder of his money before heading out onto the prairie where he could practice with the new gun. It took him a while, but eventually he could twirl the gun as smoothly as he'd seen that man do, so long ago now. He practiced shooting, aiming at anything he could find. He knew he wasn't fast or accurate but he could manage, and he wanted desperately to start carving notches on the handle just like man with the gun had done.

Somehow it all seemed too easy. Larson found that he could ride almost unnoticed into small towns. No one suspected him of anything. He still looked young and innocent. He would hold the clerk at gun point and help himself to cash. But nothing that easy lasted forever. One town he hit took great umbrage to him robbing their bank and killing the clerk. Maybe he should have waited until after dark when the bank was closed, but the windows had bars and the thick wooden door had heavy metal locks. Daytime had been the only possibility and he took it. He waited for a lull in the normal business routines, then pulling a bandana over his face he'd barged in and demanded money from the safe. The clerk had been reluctant to go along with his plans, and before he realized what he was doing a shot rang out and he watched as the clerk fell to the floor with a big red bloodstain spreading over his shirt.

He'd made it out of town and hidden among some thickets about ten miles away. It wasn't long before the local sheriff arrived on the scene with three temporary deputies. From his vantage point he watched the men before taking careful aim and firing twice. Two men fell to the ground and the others turned tail and ran.

Red smiled to himself. He took out his knife and carved three notches on his gun, one for the bank clerk and two for the lawmen. Life was good. He found he didn't dislike killing. It even gave him a sense of power that he'd never experienced before.

Red Larson enjoyed the good life, it made up for the impoverished childhood he'd had. He bought himself a new horse and rode all the way to Colorado to purchase a brand new Gallatin saddle. It would cost him almost a hundred and fifty dollars but he knew that was what he wanted, and after all, he could always get more money.

By the time he returned to Texas he was almost 24 years old, no one recognized the skinny waif of many years ago. It was there that he first saw the poster - wanted dead or alive for robbery and murder. Underneath was a good likeness of him and a description that matched him perfectly. They even had his name as Red Larson. That hair of his would give him away anywhere. He had to get away and think what to do, maybe head northeast, maybe change his name. Some of the bigger towns along the Mississippi might afford him more opportunity and less attention. He headed that way and hit a few banks, but the law was on to him and it was harder to go unnoticed. His solution was to travel southwest to New Mexico. That territory was sparsely populated with very little law. There would be no posters and no one would recognize him. Of course money would be harder to come by too - but he would have time to think about that problem.

()()()

Agua Fria was barely big enough to be called a village, let alone a town. The few families who made it their home scraped a living from its fertile soil, which, together with water from the Santa Fe River, produced crops that they could sell in the nearby town of the same name.

A collection of adobe huts and a few ragged tents sat baking in the hot New Mexico sun, when a man on a dark bay horse came riding in. In contrast to the local population at that time of day, he appeared to be in a hurry. He started to tie his horse to a convenient post in the dusty square when a scruffy young boy came up to him. In limited English he indicated he would take care of the animal - for a small fee. The man threw him a nickel and looked around for a place to get a drink and maybe something to eat. The boy guessed what the man needed and pointed to one of the adobe huts, which was a little bigger than the others. He indicated by sign language that the man could get a beer in there. The man nodded his thanks and removed his hat to wipe the sweat from his forehead with a rag that had probably once been a blue and white bandana. The boy stopped in his tracks when he glimpsed the man's hair - it was a color he had never seen on a man's head before - red, like fire. The man didn't notice the boy's hesitation, being more interested in finding a mug of cold beer and something to eat.

The man sat in the relative cool of the adobe cantina. He followed the beer with a glass of very raw tequila before a plate of food arrived. He wasn't sure what meat was wrapped in the corn tortillas, but it tasted good and was just what he needed. He'd just finished eating when a young woman in a colorful low-cut dress came to his table carrying two fresh drinks. Her dress had a voluminous skirt that swished as she came towards him. Her eyes bore directly into his - he noted they were such deep brown as to be almost black. Her dark hair hung loose and she tossed her head to make it move in rhythm with her steps as she approached him.

"You look thirsty Señor. You would enjoy a cool beer perhaps, to help digest your meal?"

Without hesitation she pulled up a chair so it was close beside him at the otherwise empty table. In fact looking around, apart from two old men asleep at a table in the corner, he was the only customer present in the cantina. He could never remember sitting this close to a woman before. He knew she was just working him, hoping to make a dollar or two, but even so he felt himself being quite drawn to her.

He downed the beer in one swallow and she laughed. The sound excited him.

"You need another, Señor? It will cost you ten cents." She flashed her eyes coyly as she spoke.

He knew that was an outrageous price for the warm swill he'd just swallowed - but money comes easy when you steal it, so he took a handful of coins from his pocket and slammed them on the table.

The evening wore on. He switched to drinking whisky - or what passed for whisky here - and learned that the girl's name was Raquel.

TBC


	3. Chapter 3

**Texas Red**

Chapter 3

Once outside Delmonico's, Matt found his outburst cooling a little. He was somewhat ashamed of how he'd acted but it was too late to go back and change it now. He would apologize to Kitty later tonight. She'd understand.

He had hardly taken a few paces along the boardwalk when he saw Doc coming towards him

"Hey… Doc!" he called. "I have to go check on something at the depot. I left Kitty in there, eating." He pointed vaguely towards the only halfway decent restaurant in town. "Would you walk her home for me."

"Be glad to Matt." Doc was a little confused, but had experienced many times when his friend had been called away from a meal. He watched, somewhat surprised by Matt's lack of further discussion, but since he was planning to eat anyway, he entered the cafe and looked around for Kitty.

()()()

Dillon found himself walking faster as he approached the stage depot. He had asked all the regular drivers to bring him any news of road agents they encountered along the way - he would also pay them fifty cents a piece for any newspapers they could bring him from outlying towns.

While eating he'd heard more than seen the noon stage come in. It was almost two hours late, but considering it started out from Santa Fe six days ago, that wasn't surprising.

The driver on the final leg of the journey was Dave Connors, a middle-aged man with a good sense of humor and a ton of knowledge when it came to horses and stagecoach routes. A few weeks ago, Dillon had asked Connors, and many of the other regular drivers, to bring him news of murders, hold ups or even killings deemed self-defense that happened in any of the towns or relay stations where they stopped along the way. So far no one had brought him any significant news, but he didn't stop trying.

Connors was still up on the roof of the stagecoach handing packages and bags down to the five passengers who had just arrived in Dodge City. "Hi there, Marshal!" he called as he tossed the last piece of luggage down. "I'll be with you in a minute."

"I may have some news for you, Marshal," he said as he scrambled down from the stagecoach. "Not sure if it's what you want to hear, but I'll tell it to you anyway." He was pulling off the leather gloves he wore while driving the stage and stuffed them in the pockets of his dusty pants. "First, I need to go check in with the clerk and make sure that boy is here to take care of the horses."

"You want to meet me in the Long Branch, Dave? We can talk over a beer."

"Uh, no thanks, Marshal." The driver looked over his shoulder as if afraid someone was watching him. "Maybe somewhere a little quieter would be better, if that's all right with you, of course."

"No problem." Matt was a little surprised by the request, after all, Connors had been breathing trail dust and horse sweat for many hours and a cold beer should have been top of his list. "Just come along to my office when you're done and I'll make sure there's a fresh pot of coffee waiting for you."

The men parted company. The lawman stood there a moment, wondering what he was about to hear and if it would help him in his search for the killer. As he headed back to the jail he realized that Connors had been uncharacteristically jumpy. He seemed almost scared that someone would see him talking to the marshal. What news could he have that made him so cautious?

The coffee pot was nearly empty and Chester, as often happened lately, was nowhere in sight. Matt put a fresh pot on the stove, and it was just about ready by the time Connors showed up.

The driver walked through the door, then glanced up and down Front Street before closing it behind him.

"I tell you, Marshal, I've already been up there on that box for almost eighteen hours. The relief driver took sick so they asked me to take it all the way into Wichita. I told 'em I'd have to stop for at least six hours in Dodge City so I could catch up on some sleep." He stopped and took a swallow of the coffee. "That's good, Marshal, better than usual."

"Yeah, I made this pot, so there's none of Chester's concoctions added to it." He paused for a moment and stared at his cup. "So tell me, what have you been hearing out there."

"Things have been pretty quiet for a month or so now, but last week I heard from one of the other drivers that there had been a hold up just west of Santa Fe. The bandit killed the driver and one of the passengers. The passenger was apparently carrying a thousand dollars in cash. At first he was reluctant to hand it over, until the thief threatened to kill the man's wife. He was traveling with his wife and young son, ya see. The man handed over the money then the robber shot and killed him anyway - right there, in front of his wife and kid. Then the killer rode off leaving the woman and child stranded. Luckily the other passenger on board - an older man - was able to calm the team, and turn the coach around. Somehow he got them safely back to Santa Fe."

"What makes you think I might be interested in this story Connors? There's stagecoach hold ups every other week. Something must have been different."

The driver nodded and took another few mouthfuls of coffee.

"This man was more evil than most - now you know I'm only repeating what I heard. Not only did he kill that passenger in cold blood, he stood there afterwards and put two notches on the handle of his gun - said that made a total of seventeen. Said something about this killing being no challenge. He could kill anyone, and if the law did come after him he would kill them too. He had killed lawmen before and it was easy."

"Anyone say what this man looked like?"

'Oh, he was about 25 or so, slight build, and red hair."

"Did he have a name?"

"I'm not sure about that. Some folks said it was a man called Texas Red. He'd already shot a bank clerk or two during a string of holdups, and had killed a gunfighter by the name of Trip Tallow. Don't know if you'd heard of Tallow, Marshal, but he was a hired gun from back east somewhere. Seems it was a standup gunfight right there in Fort Worth, and folks who saw it said this Texas Red fella was the fastest thing they'd ever seen. Tallow's gun had hardly cleared its holster when he fell to the ground. I've not heard mention of Texas Red before that, but he's sure been making a reputation for himself in the last few months."

Matt took the crumpled circular from his pocket and smoothed it out on the table. "Do you think this could be the man?"

Connors looked at the faded photograph of the man's face on the table in front of him.

"I can't say for sure, 'cos I ain't never seen him myself. But I think if you come down to Santa Fe, the wife of the passenger he killed might be able to tell you more."

Matt considered the situation for a while. If he took the stage to Santa Fe it would take almost a week - but it would be faster than horseback. Also with a little luck he could catch up on some sleep on the way.

"One more thing Marshal," Connors was a little hesitant now. "A man dressed in ragged Mexican clothes boarded my stage in Santa Fe about two, maybe three months ago. He was very nervous and in a hurry to leave town. I asked him if he was running from the law - you know you can't be too careful. The man said no it was worse than that, He was running from 'Capello Rojo'. Apparently 'Red Hair' had come to the small village of Agua Fria and just made himself at home. He had more or less taken a young woman hostage and would kill her if the people there didn't do as he said. He wanted them to hide him, keep the law away, and not tell anyone he was there. Sometimes he would bring them a little money for their silence, but the woman remained his prisoner. My passenger had managed to escape from the village while 'Rojo' was away, but if he should be found out, harm would surely come to his cousin who was the woman being held hostage. Since Rojo was a white man he figured it should be a white lawman to come and take care of him."

Matt was listening carefully now.

"Where did the man go."

" I don't know Marshal. The stage was headed to Pueblo - but I only drove the first twenty miles, He was still on board when I turned the lines over to the next driver."

"Did he describe this man "Rojo" to you?"

""Only by what I've told you."

"Where is this village - Agua Fria?"

"Maybe an hour's ride Southwest from Santa Fe, but I'm warning you, it's bad country out there."

TBC


	4. Chapter 4

**Texas Red**

Chapter 4

Doc looked around as he entered Delmonico's. It didn't take a moment or two for him to locate Kitty. Just a quick look for the latest fashion in hats and there she was. He worked his way through the crowded cafe and pulled out the chair next to her.

"Mind if I join you?" he asked.

She looked up, as if startled out of a daydream. "Oh Doc! You know you don't have to ask, just pull up a chair."

"Looks like that overgrown civil servant walked out and left you." Doc was trying to make light of the situation but it didn't seem to be working. Kitty's face was serious as she looked at him.

"Doc, someone's got to talk to Matt before he burns himself out. He's so intent on finding the man responsible for killing Sheriff Hicks that it haunts him day and night."

"Have you said anything to him about it?" Doc understood her concern. He'd noticed that his friend, the marshal, had been somewhat distracted lately.

"I've tried but he just ignores me or hurries off to find another newspaper or send a telegram or something else that can't wait."

"So what makes you think I can do any better?" Doc was wiping his face with his hand before he looked up to find the waiter standing there. He ordered a coffee.

"Sometimes he listens to you."

"Pshaw! I don't remember the last time that happened, but I'll try."

()()()

About an hour later Doc walked into the marshal's office to find Dillon hurriedly packing a saddlebag. Adams paused for a moment then decided he'd have to be the one to start the conversation.

"You leaving?" He tried to make it a casual question.

The marshal didn't stop what he was doing, in fact he hardly glanced up.

"That's what it looks like doesn't it?"

"Oh, I was just asking. You planning on going far?" Doc took it upon himself to sit at the small table in the middle of the room.

"It's not really any of your business Doc, but, yes, I'm going to Santa Fe."

"That's a pretty long journey." The doctor pulled a toothpick from his pocket and started chewing on it.

"It was last time I checked."

Doc squared his shoulders and sat forward a little - this may be his only chance to talk sense into his friend. There wasn't much time to plan his words so he took a breath and decided to jump right to the point.

"You know Matt, this town needs you. Heck there are people in this town who need you." He banged his hand on the table for emphasis. "Do you think it's wise to just take off to some place that's not even in you territory?"

Matt had finished his packing and buckled the leather strap closing the saddlebag. He picked the whole thing up with one hand and reached to open the door with the other. The physician jumped to his feet - not sure exactly what he was going to do to delay his friend's departure. Dillon guessed what his intent was. He almost pushed the physician aside, but somehow stopped himself in time.

"Out of my way, Doc, I don't have time to stand here discussing my responsibilities with you." There was a note of anger in Dillon's voice that Adams couldn't help but hear.

"Alright, calm down. Aren't you at least going to stop and say goodbye to Kitty?" The physician tried to make his request sound reasonable and he did note a slight hesitation in the lawman's step at the mention of Kitty's name.

"You tell her for me Doc." The marshals voice was soft - almost regretful - but it wasn't going to stop him leaving.

Just as the marshal opened the door, Chester appeared from the board walk

"I've got yer saddle out here fer ya, Mr Dillon."

The marshal took the opportunity offered by the interruption to escape further questions. He picked up the saddle, slung it over his left shoulder then strode towards the stage depot without a backward glance.

()()()

Red Larson had found that Agua Fria, small primitive town though it was, provided him with a relatively safe haven. Raquel had turned out to suit his needs admirably. There was an old adobe hut where she'd been living alone, and it wasn't long before he moved in there. She would cook and clean and to begin with still worked at the Cantina, but he didn't like that. It meant that she talked and flashed her eyes at other men, and they in turn laughed and grabbed her to sit on their laps - or worse - while they drank their beer. He found he didn't like to share her, it made him hot and angry inside. Sometimes he would take it out on her when she arrived back at the hut. He would be rough with her just to show her that he was the only man she should need. Of course, if Raquel didn't work at the Cantina, there was no money, but that wasn't a problem for a man with his skills. Sometimes he would be gone for days at a time, but he would come back with money. Raquel liked the money. She could buy new clothes and jewelry, but sadly while he was around she couldn't go out and show them off. Of course when he was gone on his "trips" there was no one there to control her in that way.

Red found that the little village made an ideal base from which to work. Gradually he gained control over the inhabitants in much the same way as he controlled Raquel. He gave them just enough money to survive and threatened them - or Raquel - with violence if they told anyone that he was living there amongst them.

One time he had been away for several weeks. He came back to find Raquel in another man's arms. He called him out in a fight and in minutes the offending man lay dead in the street. The people who'd watched the fight were terrified by the speed of his gun. Afterwards people saw that the young Raquel had bruises on her face and arms and didn't venture out of the adobe again.

()()()

Doc watched as the lawman, who was his friend and frequent patient, disappeared in the direction of the Overland Stage Office. He wasn't going to get any further information from that source so he turned his attention to the jailer.

"Chester, what on earth is going on here? Matt suddenly decides to leave and travel halfway across the country. What's got into him?"

"I don't know much Doc. Something about Dave Connors bringing him some news from Santa Fe about a man who held up a stage. Mr. Dillon thinks it might be the same man who killed Sheriff Hicks in Great Bend."

"The man's a fool to go all that way on what's probably a wild goose chase. He'll be gone for weeks."

"I know that Doc, but Mr. Dillon is all set on finding this man and … well there's no way me or you can stop him."

"Well someone's got to try to talk some sense in him." Suddenly he pulled his watch from his pocket - only about ten minutes before the stage was due to pull out. "I have an idea, see ya later."

Doc didn't usually hurry often , unless of course he was needed somewhere urgently. Maybe this counted as one of those times because he was almost running towards the Long Branch. Kitty was standing by the bar talking to a cowboy who worked at one of the nearby ranches. Adams almost ran into her in his excitement.

"Kitty, you've got to come quick." He had a tight grip on her arm and was pulling her towards the door.

"What is it Doc, is someone hurt?"

Doc gathered his words for a brief explanation. "Matt is taking off on some wild, hare-brained scheme. He's planning to go to Santa Fe, looking for this Red Larson or someone. Maybe you can talk some sense into him."

"He never said anything to me about it."

"It's something he suddenly decided to do."

"I'll try Doc, but he hasn't been listening to me lately either."

Doc took her arm and together they hurried along the boardwalk to the stage office. The driver had finished securing the passenger's bags on the roof, and was now walking around the horses checking that the harness was in order. From the distance they watched as Dillon lowered his head and climbed aboard.

Kitty called to him, but he didn't appear to hear. The driver was up on the box now, gathering up the lines and urging the horses forward.

"Matt!" she called again as she and Doc arrived breathless at the depot just in time to see the wheels on the big coach begin to turn.

TBC


	5. Chapter 5

**Texas Red**

Chapter 5

Dillon gazed unseeing through the window of the stagecoacn his mind he was aware that someone was trying to get his attention. That pair of blue eyes was trying to tell him something, but all he could think about was his hunt for a killer. It was his job. She'd surely understand that. He sat back further back into the corner, shutting the image from his mind.

The road running west from Dodge was fairly well maintained and the ride was comparatively smooth. Apart from the endless dust blowing in the window, he was quite comfortable. There were only two other travelers and neither looked to be any threat, so he tried to rest. There was only one thing to focus on now. He had to stop a killer, and that task would need all the strength and determination he could muster for the days ahead.

Traveling by stagecoach was no great pleasure. The rocking and swaying of the conveyance was a similar sensation to a boat crossing rough seas. Matt had long ago figured out that the best way to tolerate it was to pull his hat down over his eyes and sleep. He had managed to doze off a time or two but at the back of his mind was the fear that the nightmares he'd been having would return, and the consequences of that could be disastrous to the other passengers. Eventually he tried to just relax and let his mind wander over the few facts that he knew.

According to Pete Farrell, a man named Red Larson was one of the men responsible for the killing of Sheriff Hicks and his deputy. The man who had helped Larson was already dead - at least according to Farrell. Matt believed what Farrell had told him, after all the man was trying to avoid joining his boss,Trent Carp, in a long prison sentence. The woman, Fleur, had pretty much backed up his story anyway, and goodness knows she had no reason to lie to help Pete Farrell.

During the last few months Matt had tried his best to find any information about Red Larson, but the man had dropped out of sight. That was not unusual for a hired gun who obviously enjoyed his line of work. He had heard several stories of a coldblooded killer by the name of Texas Red, and some accounts of his evil deeds led Dillon to believe it could be the same man. He had a vague description of Texas Red, and it pretty much matched that of Larson, but that in itself was not enough to go on. Now, thanks to Connors he was going to track down someone who had actually seen the outlaw. Unfortunately the woman was now a widow thanks to the skills of Texas Red / Red Larson but that gave him all the more reason to find the man.

()()()

They had been traveling for almost four days. The other passengers from Dodge had left the stage at small towns along the way, and at different places, three new ones, a middle aged man and his wife and a young woman, had boarded. So far Dillon had managed to avoid getting dragged into conversation with any of them. The drivers had changed several times too, and since most of these men never came through Dodge City, he was not familiar with their names and likewise they had no idea who he was. Sometime today they would reach Pueblo and then turn south to New Mexico. Legally he had little authority there, but that didn't deter him from his quest. He'd removed his badge shortly after leaving Dodge, just to avoid any conflict.

The going was a lot rougher now. The ground was rockier and the wheels bumped over small boulders and washed-out gullies in the road. The weather looked like it was taking a turn for the worse too. The sky had suddenly got very dark and large raindrops began to invade the interior of the coach.

Matt had been dozing in his corner, but woke up quickly when the coach came to a halt. The driver opened the door and Matt could see they were no longer on the road.

"What's the matter, driver?" Matt had just woken up from a half-sleep and was not sure what was going on.

"Looks like a big storm is headed our way, mister. I don't want to risk the horses bolting with the coach. There's some overhanging rocks over there." He was pointing in the direction of a bluff. "You all can take shelter. I'm going to unhitch the team just in case.

Matt climbed out and looked up at the sky. Rain was already falling and a surprisingly chill wind was coming out of the northwest. He helped the young woman descend from the stagecoach and directed her and the other passengers to the only shelter around. By now the rain was beating down heavily and the passengers were complaining about having to leave the apparent safety of their carriage. Matt knew there was nothing worse than being trapped inside a stagecoach being pulled along by spooked horses, but he didn't have time to explain the details. As soon as they were all on their way to the limited shelter he went to help the driver. The man had already got the lead horses unhooked from the singletrees and was working on the wheelers. Matt took the first pair from him and began removing the harness. Not much point trying to secure them if they got spooked so he just turned them loose.

The driver had finished with the final pair when lightning, followed closely by a rolling roar of thunder, reverberated through the air. Both men we're already drenched to the skin, but instinctively ducked and ran towards the rocky shelter.

"Thanks for your help mister." The driver was shaking water from his hat and smoothing his soaked hair back from his eyes. "Name's Tim Hennessy." He held out his hand in greeting.

"Matt Dillon," the lawman replied.

Hennessy was about to remark that he had heard that name somewhere, but before he had chance to say another word, a second bright bolt of lightning cut angrily across the sky. This time the thunder came in unison with the flash. Their shelter was not protecting them very much. The fierce wind gusts were driving the rain into the rocks and the passengers sheltering beneath them. Matt took off his coat and put it around the young woman's shoulders.

"It's kinda wet but it will help keep the wind off you," he told her.

The other male passenger was complaining that they should have stayed in the coach where at least they would have been dry. He had hardly finished speaking when a brilliant spear of light cut its way across the dark sky accompanied by thunder that was loud enough to make the earth beneath them tremble. It struck the stage and for an instant flames began to rise, but the force of the rain falling heavily from the dark clouds overhead, put them out before they could take a serious hold.

"What were you saying?" The driver looked contemptuously at the complaining passenger. "Mister, I've been driving for the Overland Stage Company for more than fifteen years now, and I know when it's too dangerous to continue, so just be quiet and stop alarming everyone else. As soon as this passes, we'll catch the horses and if the stage is not too badly damaged we can continue to the next relay. It's only about eight miles ahead. You'll be able to dry off and get something hot to eat there."

Matt smiled to himself. In spite of the bad situation they were in, he knew the storm would soon pass. The other passengers didn't know how lucky they'd been to have an experienced man like Hennessy driving the team. It could have been a lot worse.

Eventually the thunder and lighting faded into the distance and the rain slowed to a steady drizzle. The driver asked Matt to go with him, and they walked through the mud that the storm had churned up to check on the stagecoach. From where they were standing it didn't look too bad. There was some damage done by the brief fire. It had torn through the roof and demolished one door - but the main body had suffered very little harm. Hennessy figured if they could find the horses, he could repair enough of the damaged hitch to get them all to the next relay station.

Luckily the horses hadn't wandered too far, and with Matt and the driver working together they managed to get the animals back in the traces and harnessed up. By the time they had finished they still had an hour or so of daylight and should easily make it to the relay station.

Dillon decided to ride up on the box with Hennessy. The man was familiar with this part of the country and maybe he had information about Texas Red that could be useful to the lawman.

"Now I know where I've heard your name," Hennessy remarked as he got the horses under control at a steady walk. He daren't go any faster with the hasty repairs he'd been forced to make. "You're a lawman aren't you?"

"Yes," admitted Matt "I'm a United States Marshal, based in Dodge City."

"I drove a stage through there one time - but it was a while back. Seemed like it was a wild town - full of saloons and drunken trail hands."

Matt laughed, "That pretty much describes it during the cattle season," he said "but it's not that bad in the winter, if you don't mind mud and snow."

The conversation gave Matt the opportunity he needed.

"Tell me, have you ever heard of an outlaw by the name of Texas Red - or maybe Red Larson."

"I'm not much help to you there. I know a stage was held up some while back - a young man was killed right there in front of his wife and child. The man who did it was fast with a gun and had a bunch of notches carved into the grip. Anything else I know is just hearsay. I can tell you the name of the widow and I know where the ranch that she and her husband worked is. Don't know if she still lives there though."

"What else have you heard?" Matt asked. Often some of the wild stories about outlaws had a grain of truth in them somewhere, if you could find it.

"Not too much I'm afraid." Hennessy stopped talking for a minute or so while he got the horses under control again. They were more used to a fast pace and didn't understand why they were being held back. There was hay and grain somewhere up ahead of them and their instinct was urging them to run.

"I've heard tell that he's killed at least four lawmen and believes that he's unbeatable. Someone said he's hiding out in a little town to the west of Santa Fe - name of Agua Fria - but I don't know if that's true. They say he pretty much runs the town and comes and goes as he pleases, telling folks he will kill anyone who comes looking for him. Rumor has it he has twenty notches on his gun - and says he has room for one more - and he wants it to be a big one."

Matt listened to the driver's story about Texas Red. The man was obviously a killer who needed to be taken down - even if he wasn't Red Larson.

The evening became quite cold - especially since their clothes were wet and they hadn't eaten since breakfast. Because of the hasty repairs, Hennessy kept the horses going at a steady walk and it was almost two hours before the welcome sight of the station ahead. Smoke was coming from the chimney and the passengers could see light coming through the windows. Everyone would be happy for the chance to eat and dry out.

TBC


	6. Chapter 6

**Texas Red**

Chapter 6

Red Larson had been living in Agua Fria for almost a year. His latest money-gathering scheme had taken him into Kansas. At first he thought Dodge City would be a good place to start. With all the cattle business there, the bank was bound to keep a lot of cash on hand. He'd stopped for a drink at the Texas Trail Saloon and, from talk he heard there, decided it might be more difficult to pull a robbery here than he thought. He never saw the marshal who was based there, but heard enough about him to decide that there were easier pickings elsewhere. He moved on towards the town of Great Bend. It wasn't a big place but from what he'd heard the sheriff there was an old man who wouldn't give him much trouble. What he found was a little different. The town seemed to be under control of two brothers by the name of Holcomb and they were already taking as much money out of the town as possible. Apparently the elderly sheriff turned out not to be so ineffective after all, and was giving the brothers all kinds of problems.

He was propping up the bar in the Aces High saloon when an older man came up to him and bought him a whisky. Then he invited Larson to come sit at a table with him. The man introduced himself as Trent Carp.

Carp had been eyeing Larson's gun - more specifically the notches on its handle. He introduced himself.

"Folks call me Red" Larson replied cautiously.

"Looks like you're pretty handy with that gun, Mister." Carp continued.

"I know how to use it."

"Thought you might like to earn some money." Carp's cold eyes showed little emotion, his face was long and thin and a drooping mustache adorned his upper lip. Larson didn't really trust the man - still in his line of work, most men he had dealings with were less than honest.

"How much money?"

"A thousand dollars." Carp reached over and refiled Larson's glass from the whisky bottle on the table in front of him.

Larson swirled the whisky for a moment before swallowing.

"Must be a pretty big job for that amount of money." He let out a breath and placed the glass back on the table, all the while looking into Carp's expressionless eyes.

"I have two…er…problems that I need taking care of. Of course I have another man who is willing to help. Two men to solve two problems, a thousand bucks each, not a bad deal."

Larson needed money. He had already been gone from Agua Fria for too long. No saying what those people were up to while he was away. He kept thinking of Raquel, was she staying home like he told her? He had her scared all right. He'd threatened that he would find out if she had been hanging around the Cantina and she would suffer for it - or worse still if she left town. He would find her and kill her but not before he made her life a living hell.

"Maybe I'm interested," he said quietly. He waved the whisky bottle away as Carp was preparing to fill his glass again. "Is there somewhere more private that we can talk?

()()()

Matt had been to Santa Fe previously but it had been many years ago. So long ago in fact that it seemed to belong to a whole different lifetime. He had been a young, rambunctious kid at the time, hanging out with a group of tough older men and trying to survive. Not an ideal environment for a young boy who thought himself to be already a man. It had made him strong though, in mind and in body, and it was where he would probably still be today if the war hadn't come along. That had changed a lot of things for everybody.

Hennessy had dropped him off at the edge of town by a livery stable where he could rent a horse. He had grabbed his saddle and other gear from the boot of the stagecoach where fortunately, apart from getting a little wet, it was unharmed.

Following the directions the stagecoach driver had given him, he headed south to a half dried-up creek bed, then turned east. After another half hour he came across the homestead.

He tied his horse to a small lopsided tree that leaned precariously in front of the shack and went to knock on the door.

A young woman answered, but she only opened the door a few inches. She looked to be around 25 years of age. Her long fair hair hung loose and the blue eyes that stared at him were reddened and tired. A young boy, probably about five years old was clinging to her skirt.

Matt removed his hat. "Name's Matt Dillon ma'am. I'm a United States Marshal based in Dodge City. I'm trying to find the man who murdered your husband. I'd like to ask you a few questions if that's alright."

She opened the door a little more and looked around.

"I guess you better come on in then," she invited.

He entered and extended his hand towards the child, who immediately ran away to hide.

"He's been like that ever since… ever since my husband was killed," she explained.

"Mrs. Garrett, I'm so sorry for your loss and I know life hasn't been easy for you in the last few months. I can't guarantee that I can change that, but I am going to promise you that I intend to do my best to find the man responsible for murdering your husband."

She smiled a little with her lips - but her eyes continued to reflect only sadness.

"Let me make some coffee and we'll sit down and talk." She indicated a small table where two chairs were placed across from each other.

"Why was your husband carrying all that money, Mrs. Garrett?"

"We had been in Tucson, Marshal. My husband's father had died and we'd been there settling his estate. Grant was bringing the money back here. He was planning to use it to improve the place. He thought he'd purchase some cattle and add on to the house. No one knew he was carrying it."

"Can you tell me anything about the man who held up the stage?"

"He was fairly tall, but not as tall as you. The most striking thing was his hair - it was red - not sandy, but really red," she emphasized. "The lower half of his face was covered with a bandana, but I noticed that he had honey colored eyes. I don't think I've ever seen eyes like that before. They could have been beautiful to look at, but they weren't…they were cold and harsh. It was like he almost enjoyed killing."

She turned back to the stove to get the coffee pot, and carefully poured two cups. By this time, the young boy had quietly returned and was standing across the room carefully watching Dillon.

Matt produced the wanted circular from his pocket and smoothed it out on the table,

"Do you recognize this man Mrs. Garrett?"

She set the two cups on the table and picked up the poster. She studied it carefully for a minute or two, then covered the lower part of the face with her hand to simulate the bandana he'd worn.

"It could be him, Marshal, but it's difficult to be absolutely certain."

"I understand." He folded the paper once more and returned it to his pocket.

They sat talking for a few more minutes while Matt finished his coffee. Then he stood up and looked at her.

"I have to be on my way now. You've been very helpful."

"You're welcome to stay for supper if you like. We don't have a whole lot but there's plenty for three.

Matt smiled. "Thank you Ma'am, but I have to go."

TBC


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

It wasn't far to Agua Fria. The horse Dillon was riding was not as strong as his usual mount back in Dodge, so he set off at a modest walk, following the south bank of the Santa Fe River. It took little more than an hour before he came across the outskirts of the village. There were only a few buildings, most of them adobe in style and structure. He came to the old church of San Isidro. It, and several of the other buildings which formed the perimeter of a the central square, were built of wood. There was an old stone fountain there too, but it looked as if it hadn't worked in quite a while.

He glanced around for somewhere to get a drink and a place to stable his horse but the village was deserted. He dismounted and walked towards the church. A door in the front of the building opened and a man dressed in a black cassock appeared and was coming towards him. Matt was always alert. He looked at the man with cautious suspicion. There was ample room in a cassock to hide a pistol.

The man in the cassock extended his hand towards Dillon. "Father Francis" he said by way of introduction.

"Matt Dillon," Matt replied, still being somewhat suspicious.

"We don't get many visitors around here," the man in the cassock continued as they shook hands.

"I'm just passing through. I wondered if there was somewhere I could water my horse and maybe stable him for the night .

"Bring him around the back." Father Francis indicated the direction. "We have a well back here."

Matt took the reins in his left hand in order to leave his right free. He thought he could trust the priest but years of experience had taught him to always be alert. He was careful to watch for any sudden movement from the shadows cast by the old building. He'd come to far to be shot at from ambush now.

He was surprised to see a large vegetable garden behind the church. It made a stark contrast to the dusty square and dried up fountain he had seen out front. There was a small corral with a water trough that the priest was filling with the aid of a bucket.

"You can turn him in here, Mr. Dillon. Father Patrick has taken the horse and buggy to go visiting some of our more outlying parishioners, so please make use of it."

Dillon began to relax, everything seemed as it should be. He set about untacking his mount and turned him into the small enclosure. He used the opportunity to start up a conversation.

"So is it just you and Father Patrick who live here?"

"Yes most of the time - occasionally we have guests who stay for a while. If you'd like to come inside I can offer you some coffee."

"Well thank you, Father. I'd appreciate that."

Matt usually found that saloons were a good source of information when he was looking for someone, but maybe the church had its own sources of knowledge.

Tne the little kitchen were sparse. A few pots and pans hung above the sink, and a string of onions where hooked on a nail by the door. There was a well-scrubbed wooden table with two chairs. Father Francis placed two mugs of steaming coffee on the table and indicated one of the chairs for the lawman to sit.

"How long have you been here in Aqua Fria, Padre?" Matt asked, trying not to sound overly inquisitive.

"Only a year or so. Father Patrick has been here longer but I think he is hoping to move back east soon." The priest brought a plate loaded with slices of ham and homemade bread, then took the other chair for himself. "Please help yourself. Have you come far?"

"Today I only came from Santa Fe." Matt looked up to watch the priest's face as he prepared his next sentence. "I went there to visit a young woman whose husband was murdered in a stagecoach holdup a month or two back." If the man in the cassock knew anything about that, he showed no sign of it on his face. Of course Dillon knew people who played poker and never allowed their eyes to give any hint as to what cards they held in their hands. Matt's long honed sense of danger began to subside and he thought he could trust Priest.

"To tell you the truth Father, I'm a United States Marshal and I'm here to find a man called Texas Red or maybe Red Larson."

A heavy shadow crossed the face of the man across the table from him. All too quickly he got up from where he sat and went to reach for the coffee pot from the stove.

"So you've heard of him?" Matt asked.

"Well er… yes - only by reputation of course."

"Of course."

There was silence for a minute or two while the priest re-filled their coffee mugs.

"Look, Marshal. I don't want any trouble here. The people in the village have been through enough and they're scared. I can't risk causing them more harm."

"I came here to stop the harm. I need to arrest this killer and take him back to stand trial for his crimes."

"Lawmen have been here before, two of them in fact. They are both buried in the churchyard."

The priest bowed his head and blessed himself with the sign of the cross. "We don't want anymore killing here. And you, my son, I don't think you want to die here either."

"I made my peace with death a long time ago, Padre. When I first took the oath and pinned on this badge, I knew it didn't come with the promise of a long life."

"This man is evil, Marshal. He kills for the pleasure of it. He has caused pain to so many families, and his threats keep everyone in a state of fear. A few families have managed to leave this town - mostly by night so no one knows where they go. They leave everything behind just to get away."

"Do you know where he is now?"

"I think so, but you must be careful. He has a young woman he holds hostage, and he will hurt her if you go there."

"Things are not going to get any better for your congregation as long as this man remains here. You need to tell me everything you know and let me deal with him."

It took a good while for the priest to recount how "Cabello Rojo" arrived in town. How he essentially took a young woman by the name of Raquel, hostage, and used her to hold threats over the rest of the town.

As they were talking a young boy appeared at the open door and spoke quietly in Spanish to the priest. Matt waited patiently until the boy had gone and Father Francis returned to the table. He looked worried.

Matt allowed a minute or so to pass before asking what had happened.

The Priest crossed himself again. "I hope that our Savior will protect us."

"From what?"

"Rojo has returned."

Matt thought for a moment. He had to take a big chance. He couldn't allow Red Larson to hurt any more people. He took the crumpled circular from his pocket and set it on the table.

"Father, is this the man you know as Rojo?"

The priest studied the poster for a moment, then picked it up to look at it in more detail. He nodded his head. "It's a good enough likeness," he said thoughtfully. "I believe it is."

"Where is the man now."

The priest hesitated for a moment.

"You have to tell me before I can help you ."

It seemed from the expression on his face that the priest had decided what he must do.

"He is at the house of the young woman I was telling you about, but you cannot just go there and take him. He will probably kill you and her besides."

Dillon stood up and walked back and forth across the small room that served as a kitchen.

"Can you go and get her out of there?" he asked.

"Not until he leaves, then I can try."

Matt thought for a moment then nodded thoughtfully. "You can bring her back here for safety. Meantime you need to spread word to the rest of the village to stay in their homes or at least away from the square."

"What are you going to do?"

"I'm going to arrest the man and take him back to Kansas for trial. He has murdered too many people."

"He will not let you take him señor. He boasts about how many lawmen he has killed."

"It's my job Father, I have no choice."

The Padre raised his hands and placed them palms together, then slowly bowed his head over them for a second or two. "May God be with you in your task, my son. You will need all his help to take care of that evil man. I will do as you ask."

There was a noise outside. It broke the tension for a moment. An old buggy pulled up, driven by an elderly looking priest.

Father Francis smiled a little. "That will be Father Patrick, I must go to help him."

Left alone, Matt helped himself to a final cup of coffee. If things didn't go well it may indeed be his last. He knew by now that Red Larson was a cold bloodied killer who enjoyed inflicting pain on people. He also knew that he was one of the few who stood any chance of stopping him. Maybe this would be the last thing he would ever do. Somehow he would find a way to take Larson down - even if it was with his dying breath. For a moment another image fleeted before his eyes. Smiling blue eyes and a warm smile. Kitty. She was waiting for him to return. If he had the strong faith of Father Francis, maybe he would say a prayer to that same God to help him do this. But his faith, misplaced or not, was in himself. It was his own hands that would draw the gun and it was his eyes that would aim it straight and true. He just hoped his skills were sufficient for the task.

TBC.


	8. Chapter 8

**Texas Red**

Chapter 8

The job in Great Bend had been an easy one. There'd been no challenge in taking down the two lawmen. A dark alley and two bullets was all it had taken, three if he counted the one he had used on Harris. Carp had wanted the job done quietly, no standup gunfight in the street. The job was so far beneath his skills that it hardly warranted any additional notches on his gun. Even less so was a notch needed for the man, Harris, who was supposed to be helping him. As a consequence he left the town with two thousand dollars in his pocket. Not a lot by his usual standards, but it was time to head back to Agua Fria - just in case the people there should forget how powerful he was and how they owed him their allegiance.

Everything was as he expected after the long ride home. Raquel was there waiting for him just as he had told her to be. He would check around town just to make sure that she had obeyed his orders but he thought that by now she was too scared to do otherwise. He grabbed her around the waist the minute he entered the adobe. She pulled away from him and he didn't like that.

"Aren't you happy to see your man return. Look!" he said as he puled a bundle of dollars from his pocket, "I have brought money for you. You can buy a new dress or something."

It was an hour or more later when he left the adobe to go find a drink. Soon it would be dark. He left Raquel trying to dry the tears on her face and change her torn dress. She wanted to leave the house and the village but knew he would find her. What's more her old grandfather still lived here in the village, and Rojo had promised he would take it out on the old man if she ran away. The tears started again, she knew he would return that night in a drunken state and she also knew, from experience what would follow.

She was still trying to get herself back together when there was a soft knock at the door. At first she was scared to answer, but it came again. Cautiously she went to see who or what it was. Surprisingly it was Father Francis from the church. She hadn't been to Sunday Mass in a long time. Rojo wouldn't let her attend such things.

She heard the whispered voice through the door. "Raquel, it's Father Francis, I am here to help you."

She went and placed her hands on the rough wood, but didn't dare open the door to let him in.

"I can't, Father. Go away or he will kill me."

"My child, help has arrived for us. Open the door."

Help? How could there be any help for her situation? Maybe the Lord had sent her this suffering to atone for her past sins. After all she knew it had been wrong to please so many men while she worked in the cantina but it was the only way she had of earning any money. She had to live.

"Raquel, hurry before Rojo returns. I have to take you to safety."

"There is no place I can be safe, Father. He'll find me wherever I hide. He's told me that."

She opened the door a little and the priest took her hand. "There isn't time to argue, put your faith in God and come with me.

Under cover of the darkness that had now descended on the village, two people fled the small adobe building and, in terrified haste, ran across the dusty square to the relative sanctuary of the wooden church building.

They weren't the only people out there in the square. The elderly Father Patrick was making his rounds, going from door to door holding brief conversations with people.

Larson saw the old priest as he sat finishing his second bottle of whisky. He laughed inwardly at the old fool. Maybe he should go out there and put a bullet in the man. Maybe he would do that later if he felt like it. For now he would finish this bottle and eat a meal. Then he would return to the adobe and amuse himself with that slut of a girl. He enjoyed it all the more when she was scared of him. It made him feel like a real man.

The food arrived and he ordered a beer to wash it down. He took his time. Let the girl think about what was coming to her. She should know by now what he wanted when he came home .

He finished eating and looked outside. The square was strangely quiet now. Only a few dim lamps shone through into the darkness. Then the church bell began to chime. Bong! Bong! Bong! Just one note repeated over and over again. It annoyed him. It must be some service the old priest was calling people to. He would have to go out and put a stop to that. Maybe if he shot both the priests that would put an end to it.

He left the Cantina in time to see the elderly priest make his feeble way around the corner beside the church. He halfway drew his gun from its holster before laughing to himself. The old man would be a waste of a bullet. There was no one out here on the unlit dusty street, it was strangely quiet but he could almost feel eyes watching him from behind old rotting doors and alleyways leading off the square. These people had nothing, they were worthless, he could kill them all just by lifting his gun.

He was walking towards the adobe he now thought of as his. If that girl knew what was good for her she would be there ready, waiting for him. He opened the door and called her. No answer. Now he was really angry. He would find her and she would pay for this. The alcohol and the food he had eaten after such a long ride had left him tired. He sat on the pile of rags that served as a bed. He would sleep for an hour or two. The church bells were silent now. He could rest. He would let that girl think she was safe for a while - then he would go get her.

In the darkness of night, the people of the village were huddled in their homes. Father Patrick had spread the word. There was a lawman in town, a United States Marshal. He was here to take Rojo away. He would arrest him, or maybe kill him right there. The people were scared, supposing this lawman should fail. They had seen several come before, and all were now buried in the churchyard. Would this one be any different?

()()()

Matt had been alone in the small Kitchen for thirty minutes or more. The younger priest had left him there with a coffee pot and a bottle of surprisingly excellent whisky together with a glass to pour it in. Matt didn't want the girl to get hurt when he went after Larson, and the younger priest agreed he would try to bring her to safety. Father Patrick had gone to warn the other villagers to stay off the streets - there was going to be a big showdown in the morning.

The whisky helped him relax - not necassarily a good thing before facing a killer like Red Larson or whatever he called himself now. The tension had been building up in him for what seemed like months, and now it was about to come to an end - one way or another. "Be careful cowboy!" How many times had Kitty Russell said those words to him before he set off in pursuit of some outlaw? He tried to be careful, he wanted to return to her. He didn't want to hurt her by not coming home, but he had a job to do and that job came with risks. He took another mouthful of the father's whisky, then stood up and walked around the small room. He almost wished he could go out there now, and face the man he had been after for so long, but it was dark. The people in the village needed to be warned about what was going to happen. If he should fail, what would happen to them? It was a big responsibility on his shoulders, but he accepted it - it was part of the job. He gave a half laugh to himself at that thought. It was what he told other people, just a job, but it was so much more than that. It was something he really believed in. Several times he had taken off that badge. He had been tired of all the killing, tired of being the one to enforce the law on those who would rather be lawless. He remembered how Chester had told him one time that he was one of the few man with the ability to do it. It was too bad for him but that was the way it was.

He drained the whisky glass he had been holding in his hand and sat heavily in the chair he'd recently vacated. He rested his elbows on the table and sank his head into his hands. He was alone, here in this room, accompanied by the fears that were in his mind. It wasn't fear for himself that plagued him. The outcome of what he was about to do, affected more people than just himself and it was those people that he worried about now. So many people were involved, the young woman, the people of this village, the two priests and all the other men Red Larson would kill in the future if he wasn't stopped now. These doubts always haunted his mind but he would never allow anyone else to see them.

He managed to clear those thoughts away just as the door leading to the corral out back opened. Father Francis stood there with his arm around the shoulders of a very frightened young woman.

Matt immediately got to his feet - all signs of self-doubt erased from his demeanor.

"Marshal Dillon, this is Raquel, the young woman I was telling you about." The priest ushered her into the room and sat her down at the table. The girl looked at him. The man she saw was tall, much taller than any she had met before. His blue eyes held hers for a moment. There was no sign of fear there. Did he know how evil the man was that he was about to face? Was he aware of how fast he was with that gun? He had killed so many men and he was proud of it. Now this man in front of her was the only hope for her and this entire village.

"Tell me about him Raquel. Where is he now - what is he likely to be doing?"

"He went to the cantina. He will eat and drink then, when he has had enough, he will come looking for me to…entertain him. He will be so angry when he finds I am not there waiting for him. Maybe he will come here looking for me. I am not safe anywhere."

"I promise you'll be safe here." Matt had already noted the fresh bruises on the young woman's arms. He didn't want to see her hurt again. He always had to protect women. It was something engrained in his being.

Father Francis got another mug from a small shelf above the old sink. He brought it to the table and placed it in front of her then filled it with coffee from the pot.

"Have you eaten,Raquel?" he said as he finished pouring the coffee.

She shook her head. She was too scared to eat since Rojo had arrived back in the village. The priest cut another slice of ham and added some bread to a clean plate and gave it to her. At first she could not eat, but after sipping on the coffee for a while she managed to take a few bites.

As she ate, the priest looked at Matt. "Do you still plan to go ahead with this?"

Matt nodded, "It has to be done."

"May I suggest you get some sleep tonight. Tomorrow the people will be more prepared and you need all your strength for what is to come."

The Padre spoke the truth. He was tired. A few hours sleep could make all the difference.

"There is a small room with a cot at the back of the church, you can sleep there undisturbed."

"What about Raquel?"

"She will be safe here, don't worry. Just prepare yourself for tomorrow."

()()()

The room at the back of the church was cool. There was a single lamp on a small stool which sat beside a simple wooden cot. He lit the lamp with a match from his pocket and tested the bed. There was a thin mattress and only a rough blanket as a cover, but it was clean and he knew he needed to rest. The long stagecoach ride and the recurring dreams had already taken their toll.

TBC


	9. Chapter 9

**Texas Red**

Chapter 9

Larson had slept - or maybe he had just succumbed to the effects of the contents of the whisky bottle. Somewhere there was a knocking sound. At first he thought it was part of a dream but it persisted even though he was awake now. Eventually he tracked the noise down to the front door of the adobe. He staggered to his feet thinking it was Raquel returning - having, no doubt, realized her error in leaving. But it wasn't the girl - it was the man who owned the cantina. He was standing there in the moonlight wringing his hands and being apologetic.

"Señor Rojo, I am sorry to wake you, but I think it is urgent. There is a man in town. A big man who wears a badge. I think he is here to kill you."

The words took a few minutes to sort themselves out in Larson's muddled mind. He looked at the little man in front of him. He was a mouse, scared of everything, but he suited Larson's purpose. A little money here and there and the man would keep him informed.

"Where is Raquel? Someone needs to find that girl and bring her back here."

"I...I didn't know she wasn't here Señor. Maybe she is at the church. That is where the man with the badge is. I have seen him. He is a big man. I think he will come looking for you soon."

"I'm not worried about the man. Don't you remember what happened to the last two deputies who came looking for me?"

Larson wasn't really scared by the story of yet another lawman out to kill him. The twenty notches on his gun were testament enough to his skills.

"Go take a message to the church. Tell that lawman I will meet him in the square at eleven o'clock tomorrow. And if that girl is there she better be ready, because once I have dealt with him, I will come to take her. She can't hide from me forever. Even in the church," he added for good measure. He dismissed the wretched little man and closed the door.

Larson was enraged. He thought about going down to the church and dealing with the lawman, right now, then he would drag Raquel away from those meddling priests and teach her a lesson or two. He reached for his gun belt and was about to fasten it around his waist but his head was pounding and his vision a little blurred. The rough liquor they serve here was enough to make any man's head hurt. For all the money he gave these people they should able to provide him with something a little better. He would explain that to them in detail tomorrow. Once he had Raquel back here, they would do whatever he told them. Right now he needed to sleep some more to clear his head. Tomorrow would be time enough to get rid of that lawman - then he would take the girl from the church where she was hiding. He might have to do something about those priests too. He couldn't allow them to meddle in his business like this.

He stumbled back to the pallet on the floor and closed his eyes. In spite of his pounding head he gloated over his own importance. So they had sent yet another lawman to run him down. This one would finish up in the churchyard, the same way as all the others - and he would add another notch to his gun.

()()()

Matt was half awake when daylight made its way in through the small window. He lay there for a while, wondering why on earth he had ever taken on this job. Of course he knew why, but even that knowledge didn't make it a pleasure.

What was it his old friend Estaban Garcia had said?

 _"It's a very bad thing this job yours. There's no pleasure in it."_

He'd been right about that. This badge had led to Estaban's death - and it was Dillon who had killed him. A job without pleasure indeed! How much longer could he keep doing it? It destroyed too much of a man's soul. Every killing took a little part of him and buried it deep in the earth alongside the man he killed. Soon there wouldn't be much of Matt Dillon left - just a shell. A shell with a gun and a badge.

A soft knock followed by the door opening made him grab for his gun.

"It is only I. I brought you some fresh water and a towel."

Matt relaxed when he saw it was Father Francis.

"Father Patrick will be cooking breakfast soon, and coffee is already on the stove." He paused as he was about to leave. He had an unwelcome message to deliver. "One other thing Marshal, Rojo sent word that he would meet you in the square at eleven o'clock this morning."

The priest was worried about this young man. He looked exhausted and worn down by the burden of his allotted task. Killing another human being couldn't be easy - even when it was an evil man like Cabello Rojo. And then of course, added to that, there was the risk of making the ultimate sacrifice himself. He and Father Patrick had risen early that morning and together with Raquel Sanchez, they had lit candles in the church. They prayed to God for strength to be given to this man who had come to them with such an onerous task upon his shoulders.

Dillon nodded slowly, "I'll be there, Father." His words were quiet, almost sad. One more man to kill.

()()()

Matt knew from experience that most of the professional gunman he had come up against, were not as fast or as accurate as their reputation made them out to be. The Colt pistol he carried was well balanced in his hand. Its aim was true and he was confident in his ability to draw and aim faster and more accurately than most men. Of course there would always be someone out there who could outdraw him. He believed the old saying...

 _"There was never a horse that couldn't be rode, never a man that couldn't be throwed."_

He had quoted it to Kitty one time when Kin Creed had ridden into town. The memory made him see her face in his mind. He didn't want to hurt her. He just hoped that for her sake, and for the sake of this village that this was not the time for the saying to come true. This was one time when he had to win. Too many people's lives were depending on him.

()()()

He sat down at the wooden table in the kitchen and the older priest placed a plate in front of him. A slice of ham, one egg and a piece of bread was accompanied by a rather weak mug of coffee.

Considering how difficult life was for these people he was very appreciative.

He glanced up from his coffee mug to see Raquel standing in the doorway connecting to the church. He was on his feet pulling out a chair for her. Her eyes and face were reddened as if she'd been crying, but he didn't mention that to her.

"You are going to kill Roho this morning, Marshal?"

"I am going to try to arrest him so I can take him back to stand trial for all the murders he's committed."

"He won't allow that to happen. You will have to kill him."

Dillon reached out to place a comforting hand on her shoulder.

"I'll do whatever it takes."

He glanced up at the old clock on the wall. It was time to go. He didn't want Larson to come here looking for him, that would put these people in more danger. He took his gun belt from the back of the chair where he had hung it earlier and began to buckle it around his waist. "You'll be safe here with the Padrés," he told her, hoping that would be true. He turned to Father Francis "May I talk to you for a moment - outside?"

The air was surprisingly cool considering the time of year. In the corral, two horses were peacefully chomping from a pile of fresh hay that someone had thrown there for them. As the two men stopped by the corral gate, he noted that the water trough had been cleaned and refilled.

He took a deep breath before speaking. "Father, if things don't go as planned, there is an envelope in my saddle bag - I want you to see that it gets to Dr. Adams in Dodge City. I also want you to do everything you can to get that young woman away from here.

"I understand my son." Raising his right hand the priest made the sign of the cross in the air. "May God go with you." he said quietly, then turned and walked back towards the church.

Dillon stood there for a moment. He tested the way his gun sat in its holster then spun the chamber making sure it was free and that the gun would fire as he intended. He hoped a killing could be avoided, but it seemed unlikely.

TBC


	10. Chapter 10

**Texas Red**

Chapter 10

The square was uncannily quiet as Dillon walked towards the crumbling, dried up fountain. He had the feeling that a dozen pairs of eyes were watching him, but there was only one person on his mind, Red Larson - the man who had killed his friend and fellow lawman, John Hicks. Hicks and his deputy had been murdered, shot in the back without a chance to defend themselves. It was now Dillon's job to bring the killer back to face whatever justice the law imposed. He hoped it would be hanging. If it was, he would be there to watch.

The marshal stood with his feet a little more than shoulder width apart, solid, well balanced and alert. Every fiber of his being was ready. His arms hung loosely by his sides. He didn't allow himself to tense up because that would only hinder the speed with which he could pull his gun from its holster. He may have flexed his fingers a time or two - but wasn't consciously aware if he did. A movement a little to his right caught the periphery of his vision, but he didn't turn immediately to face it.

"I'm here to arrest you Larson."

Slowly the killer came more clearly into his line of sight. "I'm taking you back to Kansas to face trial for the murder of Sheriff Hicks and his deputy." Dillon's voice was powerful and strong. It seemed to reverberate throughout the small square.

"No-one's taking me anywhere. I'm telling you that I'm the fastest draw that ever was. Even you can't take me."

Dillon ignored the words. "Throw down your gun!"

Matt's eyes were focused on his prey now. He didn't move, he just watched.

His quarry began to laugh. "Enjoy your last few seconds, Dillon. Look around you. This is my town and no one's going to take me away. This will be the last thing you see." While he spoke he swept his left arm around in a wide arc, encompassing the whole village as his kingdom.

Dillon watched without moving. A slight narrowing of his opponent's eyes, an almost imperceptible twitch of his fingers, would be all the warning he'd get. He wasn't distracted from his task by Larson's words or actions. He only watched. Then it happened. At lightning speed, Larson drew his gun.

Matt knew it was coming, he was holding his breath as his hand automatically went to his holster. It was just like in his dreams except now it was all real. Smoothly the Colt slid from its resting place. The marshal's eyes remained fixed on his opponent while his fore-finger encircled the trigger. He aimed and fired, all in one smooth motion, without consciously controlling his movements. It was a deadly reflex action honed by many years of practice. Larson felt the thud in his chest as the marshal's bullet found its target. He tried desperately to hold on long enough to fire another shot, somehow managing to point the gun at Dillon. A second bullet was already on its way from the lawman's Colt. When it found its mark alongside the first one, the gun that Larson had been holding fell from his hand. In final surrender, the killer collapsed quietly into the dust.

Dillon didn't like killing. He hated being judge, jury, and executioner, but sometimes that's the way the responsibility of this "job without pleasure" played out.

He stood there for a moment, vaguely aware of a burning sensation around his left ribs. There was no movement from Larson. Dillon had been holding his breath and slowly exhaled before walking over to the body. He kicked the gun away from the now lifeless hand, then noticed other people milling around. They had come out of their dwellings and hiding places to see the man who had tormented their lives for so many months. At last their ordeal was over and "Rojo" lay still in the dust. They were in awe of the tall man with the badge on his chest. No one had ever witnessed a faster draw. They'd thought that Rojo could never be beaten. Several came up to Matt to shake his hand and thank him for saving them from the evil that had come to their village. One pointed out the small streak of blood on his torn shirt. It wasn't bad, he knew that. He was more distressed by the thought that he had taken yet another life.

As Dillon turned to head back to the small church he heard the bells ringing. Not the constant repetition of one note as had rung out the evening before. Now it was a peal, many bells, each sounding its own individual celebration of life.

Raquel was waiting in the kitchen behind the church. She hadn't been able to watch the drama playing out in the square, so much of her life depended on the outcome. Father Francis had stayed with her, just in case he'd had to take her away from Agua Fria as he'd promised the marshal he would. Now he and Father Patrick were ringing the bells. It was a joyous occasion and they wanted the whole village to know that Rojo was gone for ever.

Dillon sat down heavily in the chair where he had eaten breakfast less than an hour ago. It was over. For the first time in months there was nothing weighing on his mind. He felt very tired now, but at least knew that if he slept the dreams wouldn't return.

"You are hurt Señor?" asked Raquel. She had noticed the torn fabric stained with blood. Matt looked down as if noticing it for the first time.

"Its only a scratch," he replied, examining his shirt.

The priests returned from ringing the bells. Dillon allowed Father Patrick to clean the wound on his side. Fortunately it was just a graze. The padres and Raquel persuaded the marshal to stay one more day in Agual Fria so the people could show their gratitude.

That evening there was music and dancing in the square. Even the crumbling fountain seemed to have suddenly come back to life and water flowed from it once more. The whole town had found new meaning in the aftermath of tragedy.

()()()

 **Ten days later**

Matt sat back in his chair at the familiar table in the Long Branch Saloon. Earlier in the afternoon he had climbed down from the Overland Stage, and headed towards the jail. No-one was there to meet him - but that wasn't surprising since he'd had no opportunity to send a telegram. The office was empty - even Chester wasn't around. He dumped his saddle on the floor behind the door and laid the well worn saddlebags on the table. The long ride home had given him time to think about all the turmoil Red Larson had caused in his own life. He knew he hadn't been fair to Kitty - or Chester and Doc come to that. Hopefully he could set things right now that he was home. There were other lives that had been affected by Larson's evil ways too. He thought about the young woman with the child he had seen in Santa Fe. If he could claim the reward posted for Larson, he would see that she got the money. And then there was Raquel. She had decided to stay in the village to take care of her grandfather. The priests from the church of Saint Isidro would help her recover from Larson's cruelty. They were caring men and would help the whole village get back on its feet.

()()()

Dillon felt more like himself again. On one side of him sat Kitty Russell with a smile on her face that would not be still. Just the other side of her Doc Adams was enjoying a shot or two of whisky. Chester was sitting to his right - trying to get details of what had happened in Agua Fria. As usual Dillon didn't have many words to say on the subject - he was tired from the long stagecoach ride, but happy to be home.

He leaned back in his chair and took time to look around the table. The people sitting here were his closest friends - almost family. He had vague recollections of his childhood family, but those memories were buried too deep to have much influence on his life today. He never thought when he rode into Dodge City, several years ago, that he would come to think of this place as home, but that's what had happened. Dodge City was a wild town - especially during the cattle drive season. Most of the time he worked long hours and faced all kinds of danger in order to maintain some semblance of law and order here. It was this group of people who kept him going. In his line of business he dealt with so many men - and a few women - who were determined to break the law and harm others. It renewed his faith in humanity to be with these few true friends sitting around the table.

Chester excused himself to go stand at the bar. There was a new girl working here and his assistant was obviously infatuated. Apparently her name was MaryLou and Kitty had hired her on while Dillon was away. He watched as Chester tried bashfully to make conversation with the girl. Chester never had any luck with women. Those he did get close to, finished up taking advantage of him. Chester was a good man, somewhat naive but always ready to back his boss up when the chips were down.

He glanced across the table at Doc. As usual the physician showed only his gruff exterior, although Kitty had managed to get a smile to cross his face once or twice this evening. Matt truly admired the man. Of course there was no way he could tell him that. As well as being an enormous asset to a town like this, Adams was a thoughtful man. Matt knew he could discuss any problem with Doc and a lot of times the physician helped him to find the right solution. In some ways Doc was like the father Matt barely remembered. Underneath that crusty exterior Adams always portrayed, there was a very caring and skillful man. Matt knew - he had benefitted from those skills many times. Fact was, Doc had saved his life on more than one occasion.

Then there was Kitty Russell, Matt gazed at her fondly. She was still engaged in some friendly teasing with Doc and didn't notice Dillon watching her. He often marveled at this woman, and wondered how she managed to put up with him - and his badge. Kitty had ambition, she worked her way from being a saloon girl to being owner of this place. She ran the Long Branch by herself and it was rightfully known to be the best saloon in town - probably the best in Ford County. He was fascinated by the way she could handle a bunch of half drunk barflies but still remain a lady. She was observant and noticed people coming and going through town. More than once she had provided him with information he needed, or warned him of a possible threat. Her eyes, her hair, even the way she walked drew him to her. He knew he was difficult to deal with at times but somehow Kitty Russell managed. She told him once that if the day came when she could no longer put up with that "tin badge", she would leave Dodge for good. In his heart he prayed that would never happen.

Kitty and Doc had finished their exchange and she looked over at him. Her face smiled as she realized he was watching her. Kitty was more than happy tonight - she had already talked Chester into making late night rounds and planned on having a quiet evening upstairs with the man who had left town so hurriedly. She'd been angry at him when he took off like that, without even stopping to say goodbye. As the days had dragged on, she'd stayed angry for a while, planning what she would say to him about it when he returned. Now that he was here, home safe and sound, all those words had vanished from her mind. Tonight she had entirely different plans for their conversation once she got him alone.

End.

A/N: Thank you to everyone who read and commented on my story, I really appreciate your feed-back. To those who left notes as guests, I would like to say I read all your comments and it means a lot to get them: 52shari, Chipmunk Charlie, Shirley Waldrip, Sassygirl, Sarah, Judy H, Guest, (i hope I haven't missed anyone) many thanks once again.


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